Sons of the Red Star: Paratrooper
by WYSIWYG
Summary: The story of a Russian paratrooper, enjoy!!!


Sons of the Red Star 

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**Paratrooper**

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Disclaimer: Westwood own everything, of course. The story of a Russian paratrooper. Enjoy!!!

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The sounds of missile explosions, dampened by the aircrafts thick hull, begin to reach our ears. They are getting closer, making us more nervous than ever. I look around at the other nineteen paratroopers with me in the hold of the Antonov 12. It's an old aircraft, dating from before the first war, but like everything Russian, it's as tough as old boots. Every available aircraft was pressed into service, even old tubs like this were equipped to carry paratroops. Like me.

I am Private Teodur Zabinski, a standard soldier in the 14th Air Brigade. I joined to be in the tank corps, but I couldn't make itpass the preliminary tests, so, after a considerable amount of time, effort, and begging, I became a paratrooper. 

Tonight is the night of the great invasion. We have to take the hills in this area to pave the way for our ground forces that are landing by sea tomorrow. I am excited, and anxious at the same time, what will happen when I jump. I have heard many stories of what has happened to unlucky parachutists. People getting their necks broken by their opening parachutes, their parachutes failing completely, and falling thousands of feet to their deaths. Some are hit by Patriot missiles, and come down in a dozen or so pieces. Landing in trees or power lines, or even drowning in lakes and rivers. Then there is those dreaded 'Rocketeers'. They fly around, picking us off for target practise, while we hang there, unable to fire back. They reckon the chances of surviving tonight are one in four. Not good.

A nearby explosion rocks the plane. The guy sitting across me starts crying, And judging by the smell, some one has wet themselves. I don't blame them to be honest. They will probably not make it. To help stop thinking of my many possible fates, I check my weapon, the standard AK-47, the clip is full, and the gun is clean and undamaged. 

Then the loudspeaker comes on.

"All troops to be ready for departure in two minutes." We all undo our belts, and stand up. Another near miss sends a few guys flying into the opposite bulkhead. I attach my parachute rope to the rail above my head, and turn to face the commander who is standing at the back of the plane.

"Remember," he says, "as soon as you hit the ground, head for the rally point at hill 49. I will see you there at 6:00 hours tomorrow. Good luck, and may god be with you." 'Wish you were' I think sarcastically. 'Oh well, at least I'm not jumping first'. The rear ramp opens, and everyone watches the red light above it, waiting for the signal to jump. Then, it changes to green. The first pair run and jump. They are silent as they disappear over the edge of the ramp into the black abyss below. Then it is my turn. I walk up to the edge, and peer down. Four thousand feet looks a long way from the top. I swallow nervously. Then I jump. I tumble quickly through the night sky, before being drag to an almost full stop. The force of this deceleration winds me, and I can only look groggily at the scene around me.

I watch the other red parachutes descend to our landing fields. There are little explosions, and the occasional tracer all over it, like little sparklers going off in the night sky. Then it dawns on me, as I see little figures begin to run and fall over up and down the field, the Americans knew where we are going to land. I watch as their G.I's pick off our men as they land. It is horrible to see your comrades falling like flies on the ground below. Another thought burst into my mind at this point, presenting myself with a bigger problem. I am going down into that spot as well. 

I draw my eyes from the merciless slaughter on the ground a thousand feet below me, and I begin to think desperately what I have to do. Our parachutes are not like the ones they give skydivers, no, this is merely a cargo parachute, it is able to deliver a large load, but is incapable of manoeuvring. I realise I will, unless there is divine intervention, die along with the rest of my platoon. I pray silently, then I take hold of my rifle, if I die, I will die fighting on my feet, not begging on my knees.

Then, the thing that saved my life that day, appeared, almost like a vision, and due to it I believe that maybe god favours me. There was a crosswind, and I breathed rapidly as I felt the harness tug on my body and pull me away from the killing fields below. I drift over to a wood, and the crosswind dies. Now a new threat presents itself. What if my 'chute gets trapped on a branch or something. I start to worry again. 

No, my rational mind fought back. 'Teodur, stop panicking, you a Soviet soldier, act like one!!!". My own brain sounds like my drill sergeant I descend slowly through the trees. My heart races as I pass each branch, hoping I don't feel a tug on my harness that would indicate that I would be stuck up here.

Somehow though, I managed to get down to around ten feet before my 'chute is snagged. I cut myself free with my bayonet, and dropped noisily to do the ground. I am okay except for a few cuts and bruises. I check my weapon again, and open my kitbag. I pick out a tube ofsterilising fluid, and apply it to a large cut on my leg as I look around the clearing into which I have descended. I can hear the sounds of battle all around me, but the forest is dense and dark, and I cannot see anything, except for the occasional explosion that lights up the night sky. I look up into the heavens above. The sky is clear, the stars making a dramatic backdrop to the fighting going on around where I am standing. I pull the small Tracker out of my pocket. 

This is a small device, but it is very useful for conscripts. A minute before the raid, our fighter planes drop beacons on our designated landing points. There was a different frequency for each brigade, and so every man who was lost could find their rally point. The Tracker shows us the location and the distance of the 14th's beacon. I read the little digital display in horror. I have been either carried by the wind a long way, or our plane miss-dropped, but I am over fifteen miles south of where I should be. Fifteen miles on a training range is bad enough, but through heavy fighting and enemy controlled territory?

I swallow hard, and step in the direction of the beacon. I walk slowly through the trees, my eyes trained, looking for marauding guard dogs, or racketeers in the sky, ready to pounce on unsuspecting conscripts like hawks on rodents. But I see nothing, except for trees, and the occasional reflection in the eyes of a forest dwelling creature. This place frightens me, this atmosphere plays tricks on the mind, not helped by the numerous gunshots and blasts that intrude into the forest air. Occasionally I fire a burst into a bush or a tree. But there would be nothing there. I have to control myself, I thought, I am a trained soldier. Trained soldiers do not fire randomly into bushes,, and so I mentally scold myself. 

An hour passes, I see nothing, except blackness and trees and the occasional flash of light in between the trunks. Once I heard men running and shouting, but I didn't see anyone. I sit down on a fallen branch, and check my Tracker, 11 miles. Good time, I think, as I look back up. I nearly screamed with what I saw. Hanging by a caught parachute about fifteen feet above the ground was the man who had been sitting opposite me. The chute's ropes had tied around his neck, and they must have broken his back as he descended. His eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. I gazed at him in disbelief, his face was white, his lips blue, I had never seen dead body before, and this one before me seemed so strange, so out of place, wasn't this the same guy who cried in the plane, the man who I had shared jokes with in the barracks. 

I come back to reality after a moment. I hear noises behind me, footsteps! And they were getting closer. I run, as fast as I could, and I manage fifty metres before dropping into a pile of dead leaves behind an old stump. From this safe vantage point, I look upon the area where I had stood. Then, over a small ridge came an American Guard dog, followed by three G.I's. They follow they dog to the clearing, and as it sniffs around, they laugh and joke at my dead comrades body. I feel a surge of anger as they hit the body with their rifles. I struggle not to burst from my hiding spot, but I know I will die if I try to attack them. I watch the dog creeping closer to me, nose and head down in the grass, trying to sniff the other smellthat it can recognise. The soldiers realise the dog is sniffing something out, and I suddenly realise that I am in great danger. I watch the dog get nearer and nearer, the G.I's guns trained in my direction.

Suddenly there is a bright flash, an I look in amazement as an entire An 12 burst out of the trees to my right, it engines on fire, and I watch it hit the ground and disintegrate into a huge fireball. The G.I's scatter in different directions. One heads towards my vantage point (the dog had vanished) and I see my chance.

I keep low until he has put a foot on the stump. I raise up and point the bayonet at his chest, and as he realises what has happened, his own running and my lunge has put my bayonet through his heart. He tries to scream, but only blood comes from it. He looks at me in desperation, but I stare blankly back at him. I watch the life drain slowly from him, his eyelids shut millimetre by millimetre, and his body slowly drops further onto the knife, and I see over his shoulder the blade piercing the back of his uniform. I lower the gun, and let the guy's lifeless body drop slowly into the soft earth at my feet. 

I stare at the body for a minute. I do not feel right, I feel numb, like I'm in a dream or something. I absently clean the blood off my weapon and continue walking towards the beacon.

Another hour passes, and yet again I am alone. I check my Tracker once more, 8 miles. Another set of footsteps, but I am ready. I jump behind a tree and bring the path where the footsteps are coming from into the sights of my AK-47. Luckily for me, seven men in Red Army uniform emerge from behind the tree. 

"Halt", I yell in Russian, "Friend or Foe?". They stop, and their commander replies in a thick Siberian accent, "Friend." I step out from behind my tree and lower my rifle. I greet the commander like an old brother. I ask them which brigade they were from.

"23rd, we are heading for hill 63Alpha." 

"Okay," I reply, "do you know what happened to the rest of the 14th?" The commander's face dropped.

"I'm sorry, they miss-dropped about ten miles away from where they should have been. They landed straight into an American base. Only one platoon 

survived, I afraid." My heart dropped. The numbness returns. I begin to feel weak, and I sit down on the dirt below me. "Sorry," He begins again, "but I've got to go, we have to reach our rallying point. Good luck." He shakes my hand, and he and his men walk off. I get up after a minute, and begin to walk again.

I walk for another couple of hours, and I raise my eyes to look at the dawn sun as it appears over the tree tops. A few columns of smoke float lazily into the air. I cannot hear any gunfire, but now I come across the remains of men and equipment scattered over the forest floor. Flies had already got to work, covering the bodies of the dead (both Soviet and American), making it appear that their very clothes are struggling to get free. I sat down in the shade of a burnt out Grizzly, and pulled outmy field rations and my Tracker. As I munch on my oatcake, I see that I have only two miles left to walk. The lack of gunfire would seem to indicate that the battle was over, but I did not know who had won. Nothing stirred in the quiet morning air, and it is quite peaceful here. I was reminded of the great forests in Western Russian, where I grew up. I have come along way since then, I think. 

My thoughts soon shift, however to what I would find when I reached the beacon?

There would be a great possibility that I would be the last man alive from my brigade. I couldn't see how anyone else could have survived the drop. But it doesn't bother me. I am shocked at my thoughts, and yet, somehow I don't care about anything anymore. The only thing that matters to me is following orders. I finish my oatcake and take a swig of vodka from my canteen. The liquid is like fire, and it brings me back to a full alert state. I pick up my rifle and kitbag and set off again. 

I emerged from the edge of the forest at the base of hill 49. I slowly climb up its gentle slopes, and then I see the Soviet flag flying on a pole at the hill's peak. I scramble up the last couple of feet, before stopping in my tracks at the top.

There were two men there, one, with a bloodied leg, was Major Brandivisk, the commander of the 14th Brigade . He was sat down, a 9mm pistol in his left hand, a cigarette in his left. The other is a conscript from A company. He simply stands up, his gun held loosely on his right forearm. I finally take a proper look around me. There are battle scars and craters over almost every inch of the ground. Around a dozen bodies of Soviet and maybe double that of American troops litter the hillside, and a small brook runs with red water. I hear the Major talking behind me.

"Welcome to the HQ of the 14th, where are you from, soldier?" He asked, a tone of amusement in his voice. 

"Private Zabinski, sir, E company, 14th Brigade." I salute, and he laughs.

"Yeah, well, here is the rest of the 14th. About sixteen of us survived the drop, mostly from A company, they weren't Para dropped into the enemy's base like the others, oh well. About twenty of their guy's tried to dislodge us, but we held on, just, and we are the survivors. Look, you can see the enemy base from here." He pointed at a group of buildings in the distance. 

I look at the base through binoculars. Most of the buildings have been flattened or set on fire, and a distinctive red flag flew upon the base's flagpole. A few red tents were scattered over the place.

"17th and 54th took it an hour after our drop. I lost a lot of good men there, but three survivors, of what, one hundred and two conscripts? Someone made a mistake there. But we completed our objective, and we'll probably be transferred, or sent home. I don't give a damn anymore, you know, I just don't give a damn.

I knew exactly how the Major felt. The site of so many dead has thrust me into a surreal sense of reality. I begin to question what this was all about, anyway, why was we here, why did these men have to die in their hundreds for just a few hills. I ask these questions, not in anger, but in genuine curiosity.I will probably never know, and I certainly will never understand. I only hope it was worth it though, as I sit down next to the Major, and slowly fall to sleep.


End file.
